The Night Is Deafening
by danceforevergirl
Summary: Funerals are better when it's raining, houses are scary with silence, and life is painful without you. oneshot. beta-read. complete.


It always starts off the same, with the curtains. You know the ones, light blue_,_ from the summer home. The ones we tore down in fourth year after a few bottles, when we were both falling over drunk. Those. They're still up, hanging, and it's almost a flashback, but we're not children and you're there. We're always the same way, lying back on the four-poster, my head on your chest, your fingers brushing over my stomach. I can never see your face, but your skin is warm, and I know you're there.

It's a conflict to me, whether to speak, and that's the most vivid part, because when I do, it isn't what was forming on my lips.

_I'm sorry._

Your chest dips and rises with shallow breaths and there's suddenly too much space between us, but I'm fearful and you're feverish, skin burning all over like hell. And your voice is soft and sincere when you reply.

_You couldn't have saved me._

And then the touch on my chest is gone, your skin is cold, and some part of my brain, or maybe my heart, registers that you're not breathing. And I guess that's when my own breath catches in my throat and I wake up.

...

The funeral wasn't much help at all, as far as funerals go. There was a carriage, and a casket, and a few people dressed in black, along with torrents of summer rain. At one point, the minister raised his wand and we all joined him in the salute. But the six or seven wands raised up weren't enough. I knew you couldn't see us. And why would you bother to look?

The grey old man was clutching a small book, presumably filled with prayers of some sort, and his skin was a pale shade of translucent, stretched tight over brittle bones and weakening muscle. It was worse than anything I'd ever seen, the way his thin lips pressed together in a fine line, and no one even thought to question why there was a minister in the first place. After all, you didn't live by religion. I'm sure you remember, sixth year, when we were both falling into a state of dependence, and I asked you if you believed in a god, and you shook your head and told me nonchalantly, that any god who would force people into something as horrible as war, wasn't fit to be a god in the first place. We didn't talk about it much after that.

Your mother was there, alone, clutching her handbag to her chest and hiding behind a black shawl. It was strange to see her that way, without a tall man by her side, shrouded in darkness instead of her usual light. Her hair was tied up in braids around her head, and she looked up at me with a small nod in my direction. And then I, I just realized how much she looked like you, elegant in her own way, just as you were. And I walked over, silently, and took her hand as the minister went on about how kind a person you were, as if he were some old friend.

...

You drank a bottle and a half of whiskey, washed down the sleeping pills with whatever was left. You took twenty-three Blaise. Do you even remember taking twenty-three? Any less and you would have been safe; you would have woken up in the morning like you always do, with a cup of coffee and the ten o'clock news. You would have come out onto the balcony and we would have smoked cigarettes in our t-shirts and boxers. And maybe, just maybe, we'd have figured out what it all meant, like we swore to last summer. Maybe we'd have stayed together, and grown old in that way. Or maybe we'd have both died from lung cancer. Either way, it would have been better than this.

...

Dawn of seventh year, August, the last slice of summer.

_Can you stop hogging the mirror already? _

_Shut up, I'm almost done. _

_You've been standing there for thirty minutes._

_Well, some of us care about our appearances._

_Maybe I'd care more if you actually let me use the mirror._

_Fine. Happy? _

_Very. _

There was silence for a minute as you leaned over the sink and examined your features, and I tried to finish fixing my hair in the background.

_Blaise? _

_Mhm?_

_Promise me something?_

_What?_

_End of this year, after graduation, we'll leave and go live here, and we won't let anyone know. It'll just be us._

You turned around and looked to me, amusement plastered across your face.

_Where did that come from?_

_Just promise me._

_Fine. I promise. _

You smiled and rolled your eyes a little, leaving the bathroom and walking out to the kitchen, pouring yourself a second cup of coffee.

_And why would you want to live here anyway? _

_Think about it, it's our place. It's special. _

_But the manor is so much bigger, with house elves and all. _

_But it's different. I mean, honestly, don't try to tell me you like it better there. _

_Well… It's not like this place is completely ours anyway._

_How many times have you seen your mother come here? I don't even think she remembers it still exists. We're the ones who visit every summer._

_I guess. _

You passed me a mug and I took a long sip of the bitter coffee. We both liked it black.

_You know I love you right?_

_Sure._

_No really. I love you. _

You rolled your eyes.

_I love you too babe. Now drink your coffee, I'll make eggs._

_..._

One more year and we'd have been gone. We'd have forgotten everything else and lived in the small beach cottage for the rest of our lives. Just that last bit of summer and the too long year until it'd be behind us, school would be over, we'd be all new, and maybe you wouldn't have done what you did that last day. That's why I tell myself that it couldn't have been suicide, because you weren't that cold person anymore, and maybe we both were a little bit icy around the heart, but not cold enough. Not cold enough to do the other one off like that.

Remember the way we planned to write letters? One to everyone that was warm enough to deserve them. The way we'd explain about it, how we loved each other but there was an element of nothing there. How it took five years for me to say it and you brushed me away, but whispered it back that night. How it was intimate, and beautiful, and without that affection of a certain kind. How we fell in love over cups of coffee and those little accidental brushes and in the way you never took me seriously. And of course they wouldn't understand, but maybe we'd be lucky enough to get left alone.

And that'd be enough.


End file.
